Rock Star

by Adrian Chamberlain

  “Yeah. Well. Maybe you’d like to meet him sometime. Houston would like that.”

  That sounded okay. Then something funny happens. It sounds weird, but I suddenly figure Terry is being too friendly or something. Like maybe she’s trying to be my mom. You know, take the place of my mom? Sounds crazy. But that’s what I feel like.

  There’s a crunching sound in the driveway. It’s Dad pulling up. Got back early, I guess.

  “I better go up and do some homework now,” I say.

  “Okay. Bye,” says Terry.

  “Yeah.”

  I run upstairs and toss my backpack of books into the corner. Bad aim. The bag slams the bottom of my bass, which is leaning in the corner. It falls over with a kind of ker-plang noise, like a cartoon. I swear softly and grab my bass. It’s okay. Thank god, because I have no money for repairs. Then I put on the Primal Thunk practice CD. I can hear Dad and Terry talking downstairs. I can’t make out the words. It sounds like “Babble, babble, babble.” I turn my bass up a little, not too loud, and play along. It’s starting to sound not too bad, if I do say so myself.

  Soon I forget school. And I forget about talking with Terry. The only thing that matters right now—just this second—is hitting the right note. The next note, the one that’s right in front of me.

  Chapter Five

  We’re playing a concert at Victoria High School today. I don’t mean Primal Thunk. I’m talking about the school orchestra with the corny Walt Disney tunes. And, worst of all, we’re playing our so-called rock medley. Ever hear a school orchestra play tunes by ABBA, the Jonas Brothers and Britney Spears? Yeah. Case closed.

  But it’s okay. Because Jennifer’s in the school band too.

  The concert’s in the school gym. Not that I care that much, because the music is quite lame, but the acoustics are really horrible. Everything echoes. And the kids from Vic High seem kind of bored by the whole thing. Hey, I would be too. They’re sitting in the bleachers, kidding around. Our band teacher, Mr. Craigson, turns around and yells, “Please, would you give us the basic courtesy of keeping your chatter to a dull roar!”

  I guess he thought he was being funny and all. It’s weird that adults think they’re being funny or cute, and they’re so obviously not. It’s like they come from a different country or something. The country of the uncool. It’s like my dad, who used to call my skateboard a surfboard.

  Anyway, the concert’s finally over. I’m packing up my bass and pulling off my tie. Did I tell you we all have to wear ties and white shirts for the school orchestra shows? Another one of Craigson’s brilliant ideas.

  “Hey, Duncan.” I look up. It’s Jennifer.

  “Hey,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  We joke around a little about the concert and how the Vic High kids seemed bored and all. I’m getting better at feeling relaxed with Jennifer. This is good, because I’m usually not too cool around girls, if you want to know the truth.

  “What are you going to do now?” she says.

  “Oh, I’ll probably hop the bus.”

  “My parents are going to pick me up in half an hour,” Jennifer says. “Hey, do you want to grab a coffee? We could walk over to the coffee shop on the corner.”

  Man, does this ever make me happy. Jennifer wants to hang out with me. I’m over the moon. So we walk over. I carry my bass and her clarinet case, even though she says she could manage it herself.

  Jennifer’s really easy to talk to. For one thing, she always seems to know the right thing to say. She says my bass playing is good, even though I think she’s just being polite. For one thing, with the school orchestra, it’s so loud it’s almost impossible to hear any one player.

  At the coffee shop, which is almost empty, Jennifer orders herbal tea. Jasmine. I have a Coke and tell her all about Primal Thunk. The whole story—even the part about walking over to Grant Newson that day in the cafeteria and getting into that fight. I haven’t seen the guy I got into the scrap with again, by the way. Hope I never do.

  I also tell Jennifer how Grant wants me to look more metal. You know, grow my hair and get some new clothes.

  “They want you to change how you look to be in the band?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Really? I like the way your hair is now,” she says. “You know, short. Or shortish.”

  “Well. It’s all about image, I guess.” I shrug. “You know, if you’re in a metal band you have to look the part.”

  “I guess,” says Jennifer. “What do your mom and dad say?”

  “My mom isn’t around anymore.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Your parents are divorced?”

  I didn’t say anything for a second or two. I’m still not that comfortable talking about what happened to Mom.

  “My mom passed away a couple of years ago. She had cancer.”

  “Oh. Duncan, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well.” I look out the window for a second. I can see a mom yelling at her kid. The kid’s crying. Weird.

  “Anyway, my dad probably wouldn’t care that much if I had long hair and stuff. He’s mostly interested in his new girlfriend.”

  I tell Jennifer all about Terry. The funny thing, though, is that while I’m talking, I realize I really do like Terry. It’s cool she knows about music. As I talk, I make a mental note to take Terry up on her offer to visit her brother, the musician.

  “So you’re gonna buy some clothes? Like, for the band?” Jennifer says after sipping her tea.

  “I guess. I don’t know what to get though. I’m not that into fashion.”

  “I could help you shop. I love clothes shopping.”

  Jennifer looks kind of shy when she says that. Like she isn’t sure how I’m going to react. I know how she feels. I’m always nervous when I ask someone new if they want to do stuff.

  “Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”

  She smiles and stands up.

  “I better go back to the school. My parents will be there in a few minutes.”

  I’m so happy, I feel like hugging Jennifer or something. But I just say goodbye. Then I sit by myself in the coffee shop for a while, drinking my Coke. Another good day. Imagine that.

  I look through the window to see if that mom and her crying kid are still around. No sign of them. At that moment, sunlight shining through the window lights up my hands. Just my hands. I figure, for some crazy reason, that this is a good sign.

  Chapter Six

  Saturday morning. The weekend’s finally here. I love sleeping in, especially on Saturdays. Sometimes the sun comes through the window and warms up my legs under the covers. I like to pretend I’m on that tropical island and doze off for another hour or two.

  Then I look at the digital clock on the bedside table. It’s 10:47 am. Wow. Some sleep. Still, instead of getting up, I yank the covers over my head. I start thinking about Jennifer.

  I imagine that we’re married, you know, husband and wife. We live in a white house with a white fence. Even our car is white. And there’s these yellow daffodils planted all around the house. It’s sort of like a cartoon, really, or one of those movies where everything is kind of fake on purpose. Like that neighborhood in Edward Scissorhands, where all the lawns are cut just right and the houses are bright colors.

  “Duncan!” my dad yells. “Duncan! Come on down. Get some breakfast.”

  Breakfast? Dad never makes breakfast. Mom used to do that. Now we usually get our own stuff. Half the time I don’t even eat breakfast.

  I sniff. Pancakes. Pancakes and sausages. Unbelievable.

  I’m just wearing a T-shirt and underwear. Briefs, not boxers. I can’t believe people who wear boxers. Me, I need the support. When I walk in the kitchen, guess what? There’s Terry, standing over the stove, cooking up pancakes and sausages. Holy crap.

  “Hey, buster,” she says. “Nice pajamas.”

  Dammit. Why doesn’t Dad tell me his girlfriend’s sleeping over? I mean, I guess she was. She’s making breakfast, after all.


  I run my hand through my hair and don’t say anything. Instead, I just sit down at the breakfast table, kind of slumped down. I pick up a fork and just stare at it. If Terry wants to check me out in my underwear, she can be my guest.

  Terry looks at me, looks like she’s going to say something, but doesn’t. Instead, she hands me a plate of sausages and pancakes. They look pretty good, I have to admit. But am I going to give her the satisfaction of eating them? Nope. Who does Terry think she is, my mom?

  Terry goes out of the room. Then I hear it. That song again, “Green Onions.” The organ sounds so cool, so grindy, so…you know. Greasy, I guess. Greasier than these sausages, which I’m starting to eat by now. I’m listening to this song so hard, I forget to be mad at Terry anymore.

  She sits across from me at the table, not saying anything. Terry looks ready to smile, but like she’s trying to hold it in or something.

  “Man…,” I say, my mouth full of sausages and pancake. “I love that song!” But it comes out like “Mo.. Isa orf ack long.” Because of the sausages and all.

  Terry laughs. She’s got a pretty good laugh. It sounds kind of cackly and crackly. But in a good way, not a Wicked Witch of the West way.

  “I bought you an album. It’s called the Best of Classic Soul. Here.”

  She hands over the CD case. There’s “Green Onions” by Booker T. and the MG’s. Lots of different guys. Ray Charles singing “What I Say.” “Hold On” by Sam and Dave.

  The next song comes on. It’s a lady singing, “What you want…baby, I got. What you need…you know I got it. All I’m asking…is for a little respect.” It sounds cool. She’s got a great, bigbeltin’ voice. No nonsense, no foolin’ around. And those rhythms, they’re so great. I start to tap the tabletop with my hand. Can’t help it.

  “That’s Aretha Franklin,” Terry says. “Wonderful singer. The best. Queen of Soul.”

  Dad comes in. He’s smiling and looks happy.

  “Hi, you two. What’s up?”

  “We’re just listening to the album,” says Terry.

  “Really,” says Dad. “You like it, Duncan?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  I kind of hate it when grown-ups ask you if you like something. If they ask that, they want you to like it. You sort of have no choice. It makes me feel like saying I hate whatever it is. Don’t ask me why. But it does.

  Still, it was cool of Terry to buy me that album. After breakfast, I go to my room to practice Primal Thunk’s songs some more. After that, I have to get through the huge list of jobs Dad’s left for me. All written on a piece of notepad, just like Mom used to. Like mowing the lawn and helping him fix part of the backyard balcony that’s rotted away. There’s also cleaning up my room, which, I admit, really needs it. For starters, I found three dried-up apple cores under the bed. Not to mention an old cheese sandwich that was partly green. Gross.

  There’s a Primal Thunk practice at 4:00 PM today. I’m going to wear my new clothes. My rocker duds. Jennifer helped me pick them out at Mayfair Mall. Actually, it’s just one thing—a jean jacket. It’s a pre-faded one that looks cool, not fake or acid wash or anything. It looked like it needed something, so we bought a Metallica patch at the mall and Jennifer sewed it on.

  At 3:55 PM I’m walking up the drive to the band house. The lawn hasn’t been mowed in a long time. There are dandelions growing everywhere, and part of an old picket fence is rotting in the middle of the yard. I’m still not sure whose house it is. I figured Grant lives here, but who knows.

  Grant’s still the only guy in the band who’s friendly to me, although he’s actually not all that nice. Not to anyone, really. While I’m plugging in, the drummer stares at me the whole time.

  “Hey, look! Duncan’s wearing a new widdle jacket,” he says. The other guys barely even look up.

  “Nice jacket, kid. Metallica. How cool. Do you even know who Metallica is?” says the drummer.

  There’s a dipping feeling in my stomach. I always get nervous if someone’s putting me down in front of other people. Don’t say anything, I tell myself. Just ignore it.

  “Hey, idiot. You hear me? Are you deaf or what?” says the drummer.

  Jesus. I freeze up. What’s with this guy, anyway? I hate this.

  “Hey, Larry. Shut up. Don’t be a jerk,” says Grant.

  Larry shuts up, but he doesn’t look happy. Grant’s the leader in this group. Even though I’m freaked out by the weird vibe, I’m happy that Grant stands up for me. Maybe he’s not such a bad guy.

  Unbelievably, the practice goes really, really well. Larry may hate me, but we’re clicking in pretty great as a rhythm section. The bass and the drums sort of lock in, like a unit. It’s so loud though. I’d really like to wear earplugs, but when I try using some for the second practice, the guys all say I’m a wuss. Too bad they are those bright red industrial ones. Maybe they wouldn’t notice otherwise.

  After a couple of hours, we hang it up.

  “Listen, you guys,” says Grant. “I got us a gig. It’s a house party, over in Tillicum. It’s next Saturday. You guys good for that?”

  “Right on. Nice work, Grant,” says the drummer.

  Man, I’m excited. This’ll be my first gig with a real live rock band. And it should be a cool party too, I bet. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been to too many parties. Except for ones with Jason and the guys. And they’re not even real parties. There’s no girls, for starters. And we mostly play stupid board games—like Risk—or watch dumb comedy movies. No liquor or anything.

  As I put my bass into the case, it comes to me. I can ask Jennifer to the party. That’ll be cool. Really, really cool. Man, things are going good after all.

  Grant and I walk out together to the sidewalk. He tells me my bass playing is improving and not to worry about the drummer being a dick and all. I’m feeling good, like I really fit in for a change. A car horn honks. I look up and see Jason and his mom in her Range Rover.

  “Hey, buddy. Warp drive, warp drive!” says Jason. He’s smiling and all hyper and everything. “You dudes need a ride?”

  Jason’s wearing a Bart Simpson T-shirt. He actually looks a little like Bart—same sticking-up hairdo, same goofy smile.

  “You know this doof?” says Grant. Loudly. He sounds like Larry the drummer.

  “Uh…no. I mean. Not really. Some kid from school. He follows me around, like,” I say. Softly, so that Jason won’t hear.

  I’m not even looking at Jason and his mom. Jason calls out again, but I can’t really make it out. Grant and I keep walking toward my bus stop. Then I hear the Range Rover drive away.

  Grant’s talking about a new metal band I should really check out. He wants to burn me a copy of their CD. But I don’t really take it in. My ears are hot. I wish Grant would stop talking. When the bus finally comes, I’m glad. I sit in the back with my bass leaning in the corner. All those good feelings from rehearsal— hearing about the party gig and Grant sticking up for me—have disappeared. I feel kind of sick.

  As soon as I get home, I phone Jason.

  “Hey, bud,” I say when he answers. There’s just silence on his end. But Jason’s there. I can tell from his breathing.

  “Hey…Sorry about not talking to you on the street earlier on. Grant and I were discussing some, like, band business. I only saw it was you and your mom after you left.”

  Jason sighs. “How could you tell it was me and Mom if we’d already left?”

  That’s Jason for you. Mr. Logical. He’s like Spock sometimes. Usually this pisses me off, but this time I’m just glad he’s talking.

  “Yeah. Hey, I’m sorry.”

  “You and this band. You’ve changed, you know that? Like you’re too cool now to hang around with me and the guys. You remember the guys? Your friends?”

  Jason sounds really mad. I’ve never heard him like this before.

  “You and that stupid jean jacket. You look like a real jerk. A real poser, you know,” he says.

&n
bsp; This actually makes me mad. I really hate it when people criticize the way I look or the way I act. I can feel myself getting choked. I’m about to let Jason have it. Then I remember ignoring him on the street. He’s my best friend. Maybe I am a jerk.

  “Jason, I’m sorry. I guess I did see you on the street. I didn’t know how to act. But anyway. Hey, do you want to come to a party?”

  Silence on the line. Then Jason says, suspiciously, “What party?”

  I tell him about the party in Tillicum, and how the band’s going to play and how I’m going to invite Jennifer. And that he can come too. After a while, Jason warms up and he gets all excited—he’s back to being the old Jason. That’s what I like about him. He never holds a grudge for very long. Not like me. When I get mad, it can last for a long time.

  Then Dad phones to say he and Terry are going to have dinner out, and for me to fix my own. This kind of burns me, but then I remember acting like a jerk to Jason. For some reason that makes me feel better. My emotions are on a teeter totter. I microwave a TV dinner—frozen lasagna. And then I snag one of Dad’s beers out of the fridge.

  He’s gonna kill me later, but hey… it’s been a rough day, right? Right.

  Chapter Seven

  Sundays are usually boring for me. The dull day of the weekend. Saturdays mean shopping or hanging out or maybe going to a movie. Sundays are like a flat tire. Homework. Mope around. Dad says it’s just me. It’s more about my mental attitude. But I still think Sundays are pretty lame.

  But this Sunday’s different. It’s the day Terry said she’s taking me to meet her brother. The guy who plays the organ. Who was in a professional band. Terry did say that he was kind of strange. Maybe he’s a weirdo. But still, I’m excited.

  Terry picks me up in the afternoon. Her car’s a beater—a 1984 Toyota with shiny gray duct tape to keep the back taillight from falling off. Dad would never let that happen to his car. But then, he’s got a brand new BMW. So it’s not like the taillight’s going to fall off or anything.